The crowd shouted and waved as Carus appeared. The cheers started with people sitting on the tiles and in dormer windows, but as quickly as flames crossed a field of stubble it passed to those packing the boulevard below. Ribbons, pennons, and kerchiefs painted with fanciful portraits of the royal household fluttered in hands and on staffs.
Carus might think the crowd was small compared to his memories of the public squares of ancient Carcosa, but then the Isles had been united for a thousand years and the capital’s facilities were built to serve the whole kingdom. It amazed Sharina, though, the numbers and the enthusiasm both. Many were crying, “Princess Sharina!” at the top of their lungs, and flailing the air with what they fondly imagined was her painted likeness….
The boulevard leading to the palace gate, and the street that crossed it paralleling the compound’s high brick wall, were full of spectators for as far as Sharina could see. The buildings were of two and three stories, with sloped tile roofs and occasionally a dome. Normally thatched or fabric awnings shaded merchandise on display in front of the shops, but these had been taken down—or torn down—when criers went through the city announcing that Prince Garric would speak at midday in front of the palace.
An usher in a black robe with scarlet sleeves stepped to the railing, raising his hands to the crowd. They cheered even louder. He chopped his hands for silence—and most people continued cheering.
Laughing with gusty good humor, King Carus put his left hand on the attendant’s shoulder and gently moved the embarrassed man back. Carus hopped onto the rail, balancing there on the balls of his feet.
Liane put her fist to her mouth. Royhas cried, “If you break your neck—”
“Relax, chancellor,” Carus called over his shoulder. His shout was barely audible over the shrieks of amazement from the crowd. “I’ve climbed more masts than many who call themselves sailors.”
Carus made a megaphone of his hands and bellowed, “Silence!”
Few if any could hear him, but they understood the pantomime. An active quiet, more like the hush of a forest than of a human gathering, fell over the crowd.
“Citizens of the Isles!” Carus shouted. “My people!”
The other three attendants on the platform were scribes, this at Liane’s insistence. They began scribbling madly when Carus started to speak, two on wax tablets and the third with an ink-brush on a roll of paper cleverly mounted on the bottom of a thin plank. By nightfall full copies of Carus’ speech would be on notice boards in every district of Valles.
The king stood with his fists on his hips, arms akimbo. Though Sharina stood behind him, she’d seen the ancient king’s expressions often enough now—so different from her brother’s, though wearing the same flesh—to imagine the broad reckless grin he would be wearing. His posture was relaxed. She suspected he could do handstands on the railing if he wanted to.
“There’s those who’d bring the kingdom down in blood!” Carus said. “They’ll not be permitted to. Lord Waldron—”
He reached his right arm back toward the army commander. Waldron was already as straight and stiff as a swordblade; he quivered noticeably at the recognition, however.
“—and I will see to that, at the head of the forces of the Isles. The kingdom has a sword, now. It’s your sons and brothers, not strangers from abroad, who man the fleet and the army.”
The crowd cheered again. Sharina suddenly understood where Garric had gotten the skill with which she’d watched him move groups of people since he came to Ornifal. Here was the man who’d taught him, using his voice and his posture with the same practiced ease that whipped his sword through a crowd of enemies.
Carus held his hands up for silence—and got it, while the scribes wrote madly to complete their shorthand accounts of his previous words. The usher on the platform with him, a middle-aged man, watched with undisguised envy.
“The government, under our monarch Valence the Third—”
Carus was as careful as Garric and his ministers to pay lip service to the fiction that Valence remained the King of the Isles. Officially the king’s adopted son Prince Garric merely handled day-to-day chores.
“—will remain in the capable hands of our council, headed by Chancellor Royhas.”
Again Carus reached back without looking behind him, this time gesturing toward Royhas with his left hand. The chancellor’s court robes of creamy silk brocade were hemmed with scarlet in token of his position. He remained almost impassive. The smile that lifted the corner of his mouth could only be seen by someone on the platform with him.
The crowd below was too thick for peddlers to work it. Trays of candies, water jars with cups of varied sizes, and bundles of cloth and metal trinkets were mired in the thick mass of spectators. There’d be time enough for sales when the assembly started to disperse.
Carus silenced the roars with another gesture. He half turned and, with a roguish smile, gestured Liane forward. She looked surprised, but she obeyed.
Carus stepped down backwards as easily as he’d hopped up. He took Liane’s right hand in his left and raised it. The crowd had already shouted itself hoarse, but people tried to outdo themselves until Carus lowered his arm and Liane’s.
Lord Royhas glanced sideways toward Sharina and lifted an eyebrow. She shook her head minutely. She had no more idea than the chancellor did—or Liane, either one—of what the man in Garric’s body intended to do next.
“My people!” Carus said. “My fellow citizens, my friends! There are decisions that only a person, not a government, can make. Here in your presence I announce my betrothal to Lady Liane bos-Benliman and her appointment as my surrogate in all matters that would otherwise have to wait for my return from campaign. Give her your honor and your obedience, for her sake and for my own!”
Liane’s mouth was open, but any words she’d intended to speak had dried in her throat. Carus caught her by the waist in both hands, kissed her, and then lifted her above him in a display of strength and agility while the crowd thundered.
He set Liane down. Sharina stepped to the couple’s side and embraced both of them. Liane’s body was rigid, and her expression was sheer horror.
“Don’t worry, child,” Carus said, grinning triumphantly. “This won’t make any difference to you till Garric comes back, save that you won’t have the trouble with the nobility you’d otherwise face when I made you my viceroy.”
“But…” Liane said, her eyes wide. “But when Garric does come back…”
“He’ll have to go through with the marriage,” Sharina said, completing the thought Liane was too embarrassed to articulate. “Which is just as well, I think.”
“So do I,” Carus said. Royhas and Waldron had hesitated; now both men stepped forward to offer congratulations. Carus waved them back, then bent to speak to the women in a voice no one else could hear over the crowd’s shouted joyfulness.
“A king must marry,” the ancient king said. “Your Garric”—he nodded to Liane—“is a brave fellow by any standards, but being raised by a she-wolf like his mother Lora would put anybody off marriage. I’m doing what a good regent ought to do, preparing the kingdom for the rightful ruler who’ll succeed me.”
Putting an arm each around Sharina and Liane, King Carus stood for a moment looking out over the ecstatic citizenry.
“Besides,” he added, barely audible even to Sharina. “I like the lad!”
13
“That will do for now,” Ilna said, turning over to dry the large pottery vessel she’d just scrubbed clean—judging “clean” with her fingertips. The sun had been down for hours, and the innkeeper believed the cookfires gave enough light to work by without the expense of lamp oil.